L'asile de Verre
by Jade M. Kitsune
Summary: I am not fragile, nor do I break easily. Trust me I’ve tried to break myself too many times.Another chaptertype update... More like a insane person's journal entry... enjoy.
1. Default Chapter

Warning: This fic deals with very mature and what normal people consider disturbing themes. Please DO NOT READ if you cannot handle.

Author: Jade M. Kitsune  
Title: L'Asile De Verre  
Warnings: Yaoi? Maybe…but it is shounen ai Maybe lots of angst, depression, cynicism, self-injury, blood, and bad language,  
Pairings: None as of yet…but it will blossom into a 1+2/2+1  
Disclaimer: If I did own Gundam Wing, I wouldn't be writing fanfics…. I would be plotting evil schemes for the anime. I don't so, here is a fic…

**Memory files of Duo Maxwell: **

This day wasn't a total waste; I actually got some things done. Oh? What exactly did I do today? Well, the same thing I do everyday, have a nice modest chat with self-doubt and hate.

I pulled the oversized sweatshirt off my scrawny torso, and threw it in the corner. My face contorted as I saw my reflection in the mirrored wall. Yeah, the guys were right, I looked like crap. My hair was dull, lifeless, and falling off my goddamn head. But it was too much of a hassle to manage all that goddamn hair though, especially if I was going to get plastered sooner or later. I was pale to begin with, but now, I swear my skin was translucent. I stared at the mirror a while longer, awed by my reflection. Livid, red, and unfortunately puss filled cuts littered every part of my bare skin. I don't really care what I do to my body, this must be the first time I actually saw the extent of the damage.

But I can't really help it, maybe I can, but I don't want to. It was…I suppose I can call it comforting to watch the thick, shining streams of red slide across quietly fading scars. Dripping and staining my bandaged wrists, getting caught between not so old, healing cuts that are finally beginning to resemble something like skin again. Sick, but I call it art.

Seriously though, I don't know why I do it anymore. I suppose it became a habit. I should have taken up smoking or something.

Honestly it's not about the feeling anymore, the adrenaline or the self-inflicted pain. It's just about seeing blood, knowing that there's something inside of me, anything inside… Something I can just let out. That I'm not empty…emotionless, to prove I have something inside of me and I can feel, that I can hurt. I do this to reassure myself.

I sat on the lidded toilet and slowly peeled away the soaked bandages. I took my precious time unraveling them. It was hard not getting disgusted at myself…

Right now, I just wish I could sleep and not do THIS.

I looked down at the cut on my wrist. Dark…and deep…I fought the urge to stick my finger in to the parted flesh and rip away at the scab.

Damn. They itch so much! I'm not too fond of infections…last time it went out of hand. I thought I had to cut off my goddamn arm; there was no end to the pus.

You know… if the cut on my left wrist was in any way related to suicide or death I would have not used a tourniquet to slow the speed of blood flow. I would have used a basin of warm water to do exactly the opposite, and cut BOTH of my wrists. I still want to know, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I think that I just wanted a new scar for the purpose of being able to pick at the scab and draw blood in a public place where I can't cut. It gives me relief and you know what, that sounds perfectly mother fucking sane to me.

Life seemed so much not worth the living. And death such an easy way out.

What was it, all? 7 Tylenols. 5 advils. 2 some things... and A bit of black label scotch?

To make one thing clear, though, I must admit that I didn't really have death in mind. Honestly. If I'd wanted to die, there would have been more pills, and more alcohol. I only wanted a kind of sedated, heavy sleep. But as I state so exuberantly, if I never awoke, it would have been an oh- so- "happy accident".

"Duo?"

I snapped awake from whatever daydream I was in and gathered my clothes to my body, protectively crossing my arms out of instinct. My breathing became harsh and somewhat erratic. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to reply…nothing came out except a raspy sound.

"Duo! Are you ok in there?" Quatre yelled through the door worriedly.

I licked my lips, cleared my throat and gave it another try.

"I'm alright Quatre, I just had to go to the bathroom."

There was no answer…Oh, I hope Quatre didn't suspect anything…

"This late at night?" his voice questioning me worriedly, he didn't trust me anymore, not after what I pulled 2 weeks ago.

I let out a long breath and answered back with what I thought was a great comeback…and a great big lie.

"Oh, you know me Quatre, I just had WAY too much to drink at dinner, just getting the shit out of my system" My voice sounded too cheery and I cringed at how loud I was talking. Quatre knocked on the door again, he must be frowning.

"Well, if you need anything or help, I'm right down the hall. Ok, Duo?"

Always the mother hen. Sweet little innocent Quatre…caring for a lost cause like me. I chuckled as I raked my bony hand through my bangs.

"Sure thing Q-man, I'll call for you when I need anything." I said softly, my body was feeling sluggish.

The sound of feet walking away and a door closing quietly was heard. I sighed and leaned on the door. My spine leaning uncomfortably against it. Wow…the pills and the alcohol must be starting to kick in. I cant seem to process where I am…

I knew a minute ago…

Where…

Am…

I…

Everything blurred away and dimmed…

Oh god, this morning was horrible. When I got up I thought there would be no end to the pain. I should have known I had too much to drink, maybe more than usual. I was shivering violently on the tile floor even though the bathroom was heated. My hair loose and oily, plastered to my face. Couldn't stop throwing up, even after the entire contents of my stomachs were down the toilet bowl but there wasn't much in there to begin with, there never is.

Oh yeah, dry heaving is the worst. Absolutely fucking worse thing imaginable. And removing all that stink and sit out of your hair is a very tedious task. I grabbed one of Quatre's breath sprays on the way out and sprits about 3/4th of it in my mouth….Nice feeling….

This is pathetic…I'm getting a high from breath spray… I'm fucken LOONEY.

Now to run those two love-bunnies some errands, a promise is a promise after all. I have to keep my self busy with trifling things. God knows that you didn't want me thinking. Thinking is bad.

Oh, by the way, today on the bus, on the way to the market, I had the nauseating misfortune of running into an old "friend". I've said it before and it still holds true, of the many reasons public transportation sucks, the most irksome is that it's open to the public. There's always that looming possibility of meeting up with someone you'd hoped was dead or at least forever out of your life.

The dark-haired girl walked toward me, grabbing on to the poles and chairs now and then to

keep her balance. Her shortly cut hair was falling in the way of her eyes.

She held on to the pole I was currently latched on and balanced her groceries in her right arm.

Shall I be a gentleman and help her? Nah, She can handle herself.

"Hi Duo! How've you been?" Hilde grinned at me and tilted her head to the right.. I did the same.

"Hm? Duo? I asked, how have you been?" she repeated her question to me, slower.

Bitch, I'm not stupid, just "out-of-it".

'Well, still intensely suicidal and hell-bent on hurting myself more than anyone else ever could, I'm afraid. But how are you?' I thought of saying that but said otherwise.

"I'm fairing well". I whispered.

She cocked her eyebrow and gave me a questioning look. I guess the quiet Duo was a new thing for her. I stared back at her, hoping to make her uncomfortable, or something of the sort. Hilde turned her head and looked out the window. I noticed that she got two more piercing in her earlobe.

I was wondering if I should start a conversation. But it seems that I don't remember how to start one.

Exchanging pleasantries, wishing false compliments, lying, and just plain ignoring the person.

That's all I seem to remember.

The last time I saw this person was roughly two years ago. It was the eve of the first time I ever attempted suicide. I had passed out at the "end of the wars" celebration, as I recall, and was rushed to the hospital to have charcoal forced down my throat and my stomach pumped clean of the pills I'd stuffed myself with the night before. I went to her house instead of going home with the guys.

I can still picture myself sitting on her kitchen floor, my forehead pressed up against the cabinets, sobbing violently and pounding my fists into my ribs until my knuckles bled; she was in the next room on the telephone with the "oh-so-loveable-Queen-of-the-world", Relena.

Yeah, thanks, I really enjoy being reminded of how someone who didn't give two shits about me was the closest fucking friend I've ever had. Her and Heero. No, seriously, I don't have enough current problems to occupy my waking hours and my dreams as well. Let's dredge up the happy memories of my carefree past, smile, make nice and spout obligatory twaddle like:

"We really should get together sometime."

I smiled at her; she did the same and said something.

"See you around, baka." She sing sang.

Gee…thanks, another person that seems to think I'm an idiot. Whatever…it doesn't matter anymore.

Now…for more alcohol….

As soon as I got back to Quatre's mansion, I popped open the beer and guzzled it down. I was

halfway through the fourth pack when the two lovebirds returned home, to their fairytale castle. I expressed my utmost amusement of their sickeningly maudlin display by slamming the not-so-empty can down on to Quatre's overly extravagant table. My alcoholic beverage slid off the table and rained down onto the plush carpet.

"Opps…." I hiccupped.

Quatre looked at me with that worried look of his and then at his lover. Trowa shook his head and told Quatre he was going in the kitchen to get some towels. Uh-oh…. Time for Quatre to interrogate me… Not good. The sweet-blond can be very cross…

"Heyzzz Quu-man….How hic was the date?"

Was I really that drunk? Or were my ears not functioning at that moment? Testing… testing. One, two, three… I cleared my throat.

"Sorry Quatre, Lets me goes and clean that up."

That definitely sounded better, well sort of. I quickly got up, wanting to avoid an unnecessary conversation with Quatre. I don't ever want to see that look on his face again. Never wanted to see the look of hurt, betrayal, and worse of all… pity…I must have gotten up to fast because I'm sprawled on my back and there's a dull throbbing at the back of my head. I just laid there and listened to the two boys yelling frantically. I'm just and empty shell. Nothing more….

I feel like there is no me remaining. Whatever little of the "Duo Maxwell" I had, seem to be gone. Only a collection of scars and bruises linking together to form a crude facsimile of a boy, a faux body existing simply to cage ill memories and a heart like a tomb. I was never really a person that I liked much, but somehow things are different now, worse.

I felt warmth flowing down the side of my face and across my cheek. Who's pouring water on me? My right arm goes to my face. Tears? My head is cradled in Quatre's lap, he's stroking my hair while Trowa is on the phone. Ambulance? Alcohol overdose? It's all so confusing…

It's hard to effuse emotions down into coherent thoughts right now, but I think all I was trying to do, was to express a feeling of emptiness. The alcohol…. the cutting…. It's like I've been drained of everything except the parts of me that I hate, like this empty shell. All that I see of myself is a selfish, deceptive, antisocial, disgusting, apathetic, depressed, angry, self-mutilating little kid.

I got so overwhelmed at the ache of my own hollowness, the lack of anything good in me.

"Oh Quatre…. I can't mange it… without hurting myself in some way or another." I moaned.

It scares me, but more than that, it fuels my self-hatred on the grounds of my being weak and unstable; lately it seems that I'm nothing more than a personification of that hatred, intent on self-destruction. And then I'm thinking again…. Oh Quatre, do you remember? Do you…?.

In the wake of my "suicide-bound" four a.m. joyride in his car, _he_ had become scarce. Then it was for four years, no trace of him at all. He was hiding from his anger, from me, and from what will inevitably happen - confrontation. And, I hate to be this narcissistic when I'm the one who was wrong (in taking the car, in crashing it, in not giving a shit), but it really fucking irritates me that he has the luxury to be a coward. After all, I never did…wait… screw that.

Every time he hit me, every goddamn countless time, I had to shove my rage further inward and face him, face everyone, the next day. I never got to throw up my hands and say, "fuck it, I'm leaving"; you can't do that, not with people you've been through so much with.

My best shot at an escape was curling up on the floor of my closet, letting the darkness swallow my tears, and pleading with god that when Heero finally came barging in with his curses and insults and demands that I stop crying that he would simply kill me like he threatened back then, during the war.

It's not fair. Everyday, for so many years I was bound at the neck to a person for whom I seethed the purest and strongest brand of hatred….no….. I can never hate him…..it's just….. just… jealousy…. He's perfect, and I'm not.

But when I've committed the unpardonable sin (property damage), he gets to take his feelings and push them beyond of his window of sight. I couldn't do that. I was stuck, stuck with pain and resentment and wounds that I'll carry to my grave. I just I still haven't gotten my chance to breathe and be away from everything that happened.

I don't know when…. Or how I'm in this white hospital room… but…I can't sleep; I just lie in bed feeling sick. I can't close my eyes and make it go away.

No more stupid psychologists… I don't want to think, talk, or write about it, I just want to feel better. Or to feel nothing. Nothing at all.

I loved the thickness in the air around him. He always smelled like…… Warmth, dim light. Stale cigarette smoke and coconut; it made me want to curl into his chest and let that soft, familiar scent engulf me.

He made me feel like such a little child at times, tiny and timid, which was exactly what I wanted. I needed to be small with his strength all around me, holding me together. Not that it ever happened that way.

I can't even remember what color his eyes were. that makes me so sad because who would forget his eyes? I wanted to keep him forever, but now I'm forgetting. His whole face has been blurred by time, shifting slowly further from focus, but I do remember his back. The way he shoulders curved and arced beneath his shirt. and I remember the way he walked, the way he always walked away.

I miss him. it's pathetic and it's killing me……

The whole thing was redone, well sort of. I'm procrastinating as usual. My excuse would be that its Junior year, but I'm slacking off with school work too, so I guess its just me. I do hope this is somewhat better, it doesn't make much sense, it never will. Constructive criticisms as well as suggestions are always welcomed. Well, Farwell readers, for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: This fic deals with very mature and what normal people consider disturbing themes. Please DO NOT READ if you cannot handle. 

Author: Jade M. Kitsune  
Title: L'Asile De Verre  
Warnings: Yaoi? Maybe…but it is shounen ai Maybe lots of angst, depression, cynicism, self-injury, blood, and bad language,  
Pairings: None as of yet…but it will blossom into a 1+2/2+1  
Disclaimer: If I did own Gundam Wing, I wouldn't be writing fanfics…. I would be plotting evil schemes for the anime. I don't so, here is a fic…

Note: I haven't really been up to writing these days… The only writing I due is for my overbearing professors that suck the creativity out of me… I guess I'm continuing this as a stress-relieving sort of thing. I don't know if my writing style changed throughout high school and upon entering college… Maybe someone can point that out. Eh… feel free to comment me about how lame I am… Constructive criticism would be nice as well. Maybe some laudatory comments and a cup of much needed coffee will make me happy. How about some dark chocolate? Please!

* * *

I tire of this routine…The one where I get those pitying looks and the shake of their heads. I let me eyes flutter close again and turn away from looks of pity. I can't stand this anymore.

It isn't the habit of self-mutilation or suicide that I can't stand its all about how I'm always disappointing them. Worrying the only friends I have… it gets disheartening. I wish that I never came across their paths. All I am is a social inconvenience to them.

I'm the only idiot that can't use the proper spoon or fork during Quatre's dinner parties. The moron that can't tell fine wine from cheap wine. Not that I'd give a crap, to me, alcohol in any form is fine.

Seriously, who fucks up suicide? Didn't I make a cocktail of pills and alcohol lethal enough to take down a mammoth? Maybe its just the devil's luck, he wants me to live on and carry on his forsaken name.

Haven't I killed enough people throughout the war? Why do I have to take another life? I promise… if I had to kill another person, it would be me. The last and only thing I did right in my hellhole life.

"Duo, wake up…" Quatre whispered softly, yet firmly.

He squeezed my hand gently.

I kept my eyes closed… I felt a warm trail running down the side of my face… I wanted to apologize. But at the same time, I wanted to throw shit at him. At both Quatre and Trowa for not letting me die.

Failure. I don't need to repeat it because it's on a continuous loop within my mind. Failure.

I am not fragile, nor do I break easily. Trust me; I've tried to break myself too many times.

I wish you would hit me.

"Fuck no!" Quatre retorted.

I twitched in surprise and fear at his response. I hadn't realized I had said that out loud. Fuck. I had gotten him angry.

"Sorry Q, I didn't do it right… I should have been considerate… Should have done myself off somewhere else… not in the opulent palace of yours." I mumbled.

He gripped my hand with an extreme force I never thought he could exhort. A person of such small, and I daresay, delicate stature, shouldn't have such a grip. I couldn't help but yelp in surprise and pain.

"Q, stop that! That FUCKEN hurts!"

Quatre stood up abruptly and glared down at me, his shoulders heaved in anger. His face contorted with unexplainable rage. The smooth planes of his face twisted almost painfully.

"Duo, shut the fuck up. I can't believe your selfishness. You have the nerve to leave us?"

Angry tears marred his pale cheeks as he continued ranting at me.

"How could you ever think that we would be better off without you!" he yelled.

"I can't believe you, after all that we had been through the war… You would leave your friend that easily. Why would you do such a thing… why?" he begged as he pulled at my hand.

I snorted and gave a quiet response. I was too tired. Tired of breathing, of hurting, of loving, or living.

" 'Cause… I don't deserve to be your friends. No one needs a filthy street rat in their presence. I ooze unworthiness."

Quatre dropped my hand, stood back, and gave me that disappointed expression again. He shook his head and sighed.

"Duo, you need help. I don't think I have the strength to pull you out of this tar pit you threw yourself into."

I was right. See, I'm fucken hopeless. If my friends can't help me… who can?

Don't give me bullshit about a psychologist or psychiatrist. What the hell of a difference does it make? Big deal, someone has a damn PHD … Whatever…

Quatre's right. I need help. I need to find more alcohol, more drugs, a bigger knife… or better yet, a better gun.

I'll do it right this time.

* * *

Random and abrupt ending… My brain is fried. Its 3 am… I need sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Warning: This fic deals with very mature and what normal people consider disturbing themes. Please DO NOT READ if you cannot handle.

Author: Jade M. Kitsune  
Title: L'Asile De Verre  
Warnings: Yaoi? Maybe…but it is shounen ai Maybe lots of angst, depression, cynicism, self-injury, blood, and bad language,  
Pairings: None as of yet…but it will blossom into a 1+2/2+1  
Disclaimer: If I did own Gundam Wing, I wouldn't be writing fanfics…. I would be plotting evil schemes for the anime. I don't so, here is a fic…

Note: Another blurb of nonsense… rather than doing something productive and more scholarly… Spent too much time at the university library doing nothing… Attempted to study… didn't really work out that way. Oh well…

* * *

Dear Stupid Journal-thing-that-I-refuse-to-call-a-diary,  
I don't want to be analyzed anymore. So damn sick of doctors prodding my twisted psyche for a coherent answer. I have never had stability in my life, why did they expect me to have that now. They should just be happy that I'm conscious, alive, and not buried beneath their feet! 

I stared at the decrepit, wrinkling, and sagging-balled man across me. He had on a stretched-out, mustard colored polo shirt. Mustard… I'd like some relish and ketchup with that on an over processed wiener. Yeah, I'd like that nestled between soft buns too. Sue me, I'm a fucken pervert. Horny as hell too.

Whatever. I need a cigarette… They put me in the psych ward at this stupid seaside resort. Some fucken pansy-assed rehabilitation center for children of rich folks.

Quatre said that they're famous for curing depression and other deviant behaviors… or some shit like that. I don't remember any exact words since this is probably the longest I have been sober since the war ended.

I need a drink, a cigarette, a blunt, or better yet, a fucken knife.

My skin is crawling to be parted; it burns to be touched by a jagged edge of a rusted blade. It wants to waltz in three beats with the razors edge. A piece of glass… anything! Give me a goddamn paper clip.

I swear, I can do it. I can kill myself with a damn paper clip.

Whoever is reading this, I hope you go fuck yourself. You know nothing about suffering. You haven't tasted the foul bile that is failure, every morning of your life.

You haven't watched your family burn to death in a hell on earth. A heap of over-toasted cadavers, in a broken church.

Shine, halo, shine. It's your last chance.

God… I remember the first time I made that deliciously wicked cut.

It was a date with danger I can never forget.

I remember picking up a shard of glass at the site that was once my home. The shard must have come from a wing of some doomed stained-glass angel. It was a creamy, French vanilla white. It begged to be tasted.

I cradled the sharp shard of an angel's broken wing…

I thought not a moment, then I dug the point into my naked and bony wrist.

I stared ahead… dry eyed… I couldn't cry, so I let my youthful blood, my life, weep for those who died…

I remember it so very well…

I was barely 10… and it was the first time I cut, the first time I committed suicide… I welcomed death…

Beware of me, for I am the god of death.

* * *

I like making things sound crazy. 


End file.
